The Usurper

by John Norman

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

  “Also,” said Lady Delia, “though we recognize that your lineaments are such that they might attract and excite men, we have little interest in them. You will be clothed.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” said Cornhair, gratefully.

  “Appropriately, of course,” said Lady Delia, “in the scanty, degrading tunic of a slave.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  “Afterwards,” said Lady Delia, “you will be fed amply, and given drink. Even a bit of wine. You may then rest. Later, this evening, you, with some others, will serve our table.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Mistress is kind.”

  “We will get on nicely, will we not?” asked Lady Delia.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “May I speak?”

  “Surely, dear,” said Lady Delia.

  “Who is my Mistress, who owns me?” asked Cornhair.

  “I am Lady Delia Cotina, of the Telnar Farnacii,” said Lady Delia. “I suppose I own you, as it was I who purchased you. But, in a sense, you belong to all of us. You need not know the rest of us. To be sure, you are doubtless familiar, to some extent, with my friend, Lady Virginia Serena, of the lesser Serenii.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “But, I do not understand. In some sense, I belong to all of you?”

  “Yes, in a sense,” said Lady Delia. “At least we all have an interest in you. Perhaps that is the best way to put it.”

  “I hear others, elsewhere,” said Cornhair.

  “In the auditorium and about,” said Lady Delia. “There are better than seventy-five of us here, for our meeting.”

  “Where are the men, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.

  Lady Delia frowned, and Cornhair shrank down, fearing another stroke of the switch. But then Lady Delia smiled. “There are no men here,” said Lady Delia. “We are all women here.”

  “A sisterhood?” asked Cornhair.

  “Of sorts,” said Lady Delia. “Surely we all have something in common, something which we find rather significant, something which binds us together, in a sort of sisterhood.”

  “A meeting?” said Cornhair.

  “Yes,” said Lady Virginia. “We are met here, well met, in congenial surroundings, equipped with suitable amenities. We are met to exchange stories, to share experiences, to enjoy collations and share decanters of kana, met for, in a sense, conviviality, for sport, and amusement, following which, after three or four festive days, we will return to our various, scattered domiciles, many in Telnar itself.”

  “May I know the nature of this sisterhood, what binds you together, what is the point of your meeting, why you are gathered here, without men?”

  “It will all be explained to you, in good time,” said Lady Delia. “Now we must put a nice collar on you, free you of this dreadful leash, and rid you of these nasty, slender, yellow cords, which, in their snug loops, make you so delightfully, so absolutely, helpless. Then you must hie to your bath.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  Cornhair stood where she had been told, in the warm sand.

  In the dark tunnellike passage, her hands had been taken behind her and tied together. Through a small aperture in the door, at the end of the passage, some yards away, she could see a small rectangle of light, little else. It was probably early afternoon. A leash had then been put about her throat. A moment later a hood, quite possibly the same one she had worn in her trek from the prison and slave house to the hoverer port, had been drawn over her head and buckled about her neck. “Come along, dear,” said a woman’s voice, but not that of Lady Delia or Lady Virginia. She did not know where they were. She followed, on her tether, heard the door opened, and, in a moment, felt the sand about her ankles and the warmth of the sun on her arms and thighs. She was tunicked. The tunic, of course, was a slave tunic. It would not do at all for free women and slaves to be clothed similarly. The clothing of a free woman must make it clear that she is a free woman. The clothing of a slave must make it clear that she is a slave. And Cornhair’s tunic made that quite clear.

  Outside, here, in this area, she heard the raucous cry of what she took to be river fowl. It was possible, then, she was in the vicinity of the Turning Serpent. Telnar, long before men had conceived of silver standards, thrones, and law, long before there had been an empire, had been a gathering and trading place, in effect, a trading station on a great river, what men now called the Turning Serpent.

  There had once been eleven major ports at the far edge of the delta of the Turning Serpent, presumably far from here, given the brevity of the hoverer’s flight, where it, in its dozens of channels, poured its fresh water miles into the sea. Now, however, particularly in its lower courses, untended, poorly dredged, twisting, and treacherous, the Turning Serpent, now muchly forgotten, now muchly superseded by other transportation systems, was no longer the mighty thoroughfare of commerce it had once been. It now bore no more than a lonely vestige of its once abundant traffic; on the other hand, almost like a memory of the past, it was still plied by keel boats, some masted, and, downstream, by rafts, barges, and flatboats. In some areas, portage areas, boats were disassembled and carried overland, from one branch of the Turning Serpent to another, thence to be reassembled after reaching clear water. In other areas, particularly in the late summer, boats must be towed from the banks, this done by men or cattle. There were even, in some such places, tracks along the banks, prepared for such a purpose. Too, as one might suppose, given the neglect of the route by the empire, its lapse from economic preferment, the withdrawal of imperial supervision, and such, certain atavistic features of its historical past had reemerged, in particular, the spawning, in places, of a raw, lusty river culture, one of vain, proud, short-tempered, hard-drinking men, one in which claims as to prowess, or disputes as to taste, say, as to the quality of drinks or the beauty of slaves, and such, were likely to be adjudicated promptly, often by fist and boot, and sometimes by club and knife. It was rumored, too, that lonely stretches of the river, between villages, were not always immune to piracy. Certain areas along the river, of course, were far lovelier, and less troubled than others. We may assume that our current locale, then, is one such or, at least, was taken to be such. Indeed, the river did not become dangerous, supposedly, until one reached courses more than two or three hundred miles from Telnar. Certainly the shield of the imperium would be satisfactorily emplaced locally. There would be nothing to fear, surely, so close to Telnar. Accordingly, the area in question might be commended on two counts, first, it was close enough, presumably, to Telnar to be quite safe, and it was far enough away, it seemed, to prove a comfortable ambit of privacy and seclusion, which seems to have been desired by the Ladies Delia and Virginia, and their friends, or guests.

  In the villa, or domicile, if one wishes, Cornhair had been well treated, at least for a slave. She had been well rested, and, for a slave, well fed. The last two evenings she, with others, also slaves, all quite lovely, doubtless selected with this in mind, had served the long tables in the dining hall. Each was barefoot and each was clad in a single garment, a slave tunic. These tunics, serving tunics, however, were discreet, at least for a slave tunic. The hems fell only slightly above the knees of the slaves. Perhaps that was because the supper was one for free women, and a certain properness or decorum was in order. A dinner for males might have been rather different. It was not unusual for a convivial gathering of males to be served by naked slaves, bared save for their collars. In some cases the slaves are shackled and their serving is supervised by a “Dinner Master” with his switch. Too, it is not unusual for entertainment slaves to be rented, who are musicians and dancers. The use of such slaves is often gambled for and the won slave, claimed, is chained at the winner’s place whilst the guests converse, whence she will be conducted, at the close
of the evening, to his room. Men, it might be noted, at least on the whole, do not object to being served by naked slaves. It seems appropriate. And, interestingly, it seems appropriate to the slaves, as well. After all, they are slaves. It is hard to mistake the demure contentment of the female who finds herself in the place in which she senses she belongs, that of a Master’s collared slave.

  At the suppers, Cornhair was one of the girls who served kana. She served humbly, keeping her head, for the most part, down. She felt it would not be well to meet the eyes of one of these women, women so different from herself, free women. She did not wish to invite the lash. The girls who served were not allowed to speak to one another. Cornhair had not even realized that there were other slaves about until the evening of her first day in the house, when she was brought forth from her cell to assist in the serving. The serving slaves, Cornhair felt, like herself, were uneasy. Timid, questioning glances had been exchanged. They might not speak, of course. “They know little more than I of these things,” Cornhair thought to herself. “They do not know, no more than I, why they are here. There are no men here. What, then, is our purpose here? I wonder if they are separated from one another when not serving. Are they, as I, put in cells, alone?” One thing that made Cornhair even more uneasy was that she sensed, from time to time, the eyes of one or another of the free women on her. She saw some smile. There was a comment. Had it had anything to do with her? She heard a tiny bit of laughter more than once, of which she feared she might be the subject.

  She put her hand lightly to the collar on her neck. It had been referred to as a temporary collar. She was not sure what that might mean. Certainly it was fastened on her neck quite as effectively as any other collar. “Perhaps,” she thought, “it is temporary because I am to be given to some man, perhaps an uncle or brother, who will then put me in his own collar.”

  As Cornhair had ruminated on these matters, her original curiosity as to the purpose of this gathering or meeting returned. Why had it been convened? What was its purpose? Too, in serving, even at the first supper, she had noted something else which seemed puzzling to her, perhaps an odd coincidence, or at least, surely, something unexpected. There seemed no older women in the household, at least none amongst those she had seen. The several free women in the household, or, at least, those she had seen, were all rather young.

  “Cornhair!”

  Cornhair looked up, frightened.

  “Put down your decanter, Cornhair,” called Lady Delia, “and come here, dear, and stand before the table of favor.”

  That would be the table behind which sat Lady Delia, Lady Virginia, and several others, several of whom Cornhair had first seen when her hood had been removed. It had a place of honor, at the head of the room. Cornhair supposed that the individuals at that table might have some special status. Perhaps they were officers, of a sort, ones who stood high in this gathering, this organization, or sisterhood, whatever might be its purpose.

  “Shame on you, Cornhair,” laughed Lady Delia. “Do not disappoint us! You are a slave. Stand as a slave! Tall, soft, at ease, gracefully, desirably, proudly! Be attractive. Do not be ashamed of your sex! Be proud of it, love it, want it! Be excruciatingly, unapologetically female.”

  “Please, Mistress!” wept Cornhair.

  “It is permissible, you are a slave,” said Lady Delia.

  “Please, Mistress,” begged Cornhair.

  “Do you know you are in a collar?” asked Lady Delia.

  “Yes, Mistress!” said Cornhair.

  She now knew that only too well.

  “Must you be lashed before you show us you know it?” asked Lady Delia.

  “No, Mistress!” cried Cornhair.

  “Suppose we were men and you wanted us to buy you!”

  “Yes, Mistress,” wept Cornhair.

  “That is why she did not sell from the shelf, or from the block,” said Lady Virginia. “That is why we had her for only five darins.”

  “I see,” said a woman, “a slave, but a poor slave.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Virginia.

  “But she is pretty,” said a woman.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “Do you hear me, Cornhair?” asked Lady Delia.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

  “You are a slave,” said Lady Delia. “It is what you are! Do not be ashamed of it. Be proud! How could you be more female? Feel your bondage, feel it in every fiber of your lovely, desirable body. Feel your need, let it suffuse you, let it heat you; let it torture you; feel it in every particle of your body, in every drop of your blood. You need to be owned, and to serve. You need to be handled, and mastered. You are a helpless, worthless slave, only that! Now, pathetic, delicious, worthless slave, let your body beg to be bought!”

  Several of the women about the tables gasped, and others cried out in rage.

  “Turn, turn slowly, slave!” said Lady Delia. Then she cried out, “Will she do?”

  “Yes, yes,” cried several of the women, eagerly. A circuit of polite applause rippled about the room. Some women struck their utensils, or knuckles, on the table, in a gentle, refined tattoo of approval.

  “You may return to your serving, Cornhair,” said Lady Delia.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Thank you, Mistress.”

  Things then muchly returned to normal.

  But Cornhair was troubled.

  “I fear I am becoming a slave,” thought Cornhair. “What am I? I know there is a collar on my neck. Am I a slave? But this goes far beyond the collar! What is the collar but a symbol, a confirmation? I fear I am becoming a slave, a true slave.”

  ***

  Cornhair, in the warmth, standing in the sand, where she had been told to stand, felt someone close to her.

  She heard, overhead, or about, the snapping of canvas, almost as though a banner, or flag, might be torn by the wind.

  “That is odd,” she thought. “I hear wind, but I do not feel it. Surely on my arms, or legs, I should feel it, but I do not.”

  “Steady, dear,” said a voice, a woman’s voice.

  She felt the leash and the leash collar removed. Then she felt her hands being untied.

  “Keep your hands at your sides,” she was told.

  The leash and the leash collar, and the cords, were apparently handed to someone. There were at least two then on the sand near her.

  “Hold still, dear,” she was told.

  To her amazement, she felt the collar grasped and a small key thrust into the lock at the back of her neck. She felt the back of the collar press against the back of her neck, and the key turn in the lock. Then the collar was opened, and removed.

  “Why,” she wondered, “had another collar not been locked on her before the first was removed?”

  “Mistress?” she asked.

  She had the sense then that the collar had been given to the second person. She waited, expecting a new collar. She was, after all, a slave.

  “What, dear?” asked the female voice.

  “I have no collar,” whispered Cornhair.

  “That frightens you, does it not?” asked the voice.

  “I am a slave,” said Cornhair. She was surprised that she had said this as simply, as naturally, as she had.

  “Do not concern yourself,” said the voice.

  “Am I to be freed?” asked Cornhair.

  “No,” said the woman. “And if I were to lift the hem of your bit of cloth, here, on the left side, your brand would be clearly visible. Have no fear, my dear, you are nicely marked.”

  “I do not understand,” said Cornhair, frightened in the hood, her hands at her sides.

  “For what is to be done to you,” said the woman, “it is important that you be a slave. You must be a slave.”

  “I do not understand,” said Cornhair.

  “You wil
l understand, shortly,” said the woman.

  “What is to be done to me?” asked Cornhair.

  “It will be clear, shortly,” said the first woman. The other person, also a woman, laughed.

  “Your hood is going to be removed,” said the first woman. “You are to keep your hands at your sides, until you are given permission to move them.”

  Cornhair then felt the hood being unbuckled. It was spread a bit, and loosened, and then it was jerked from her head.

  There were cries of pleasure from several women, cries which seemed to come from above her, and about her.

  Cornhair blinked, half blinded by the light, and the glare from the sand. For a moment she could barely keep her eyes open.

  There had been two women with her, who now withdrew, taking with them, as was shortly clear, the leash and leash collar, the cord with which her hands had been bound, the collar which had encircled her neck, and the hood which had covered her head.

  “There is one!” cried a woman’s voice.

  “See her!” cried another.

  “See the slave!” she heard cry.

  “Good, good!” cried another.

  Cornhair looked up, bewildered, frightened.

  “Slave!” she heard cry.

  She heard screams of derision. She saw faces contorted with hate.

  “Mistresses!” she cried, plaintively.

  There was laughter.

  She now understood why she had felt no breeze, for she stood within a walled enclosure. The walls did not seem unusually high, perhaps only seven or so feet in height, surmounted by what seemed to be a railing of large, white, wooden cylinders. There were tiered seats, circling above and behind these cylinders. In these seats, there might have been a hundred, even a hundred and fifty, women, ringing her. Looking up, Cornhair could see, stretched on poles, shading the stands, yellow-and-red striped, silken awnings. It was these she had heard snap in the wind. Where she stood, for the time of day, in the early afternoon, there was no shade from the walls. The sun was fierce, the glare cruel, the sand hot. Cornhair looked wildly about herself. She stood, alone and trembling, in a small arena, some fifteen yards in diameter.